


Aftermath

by cywscross



Series: A Love Story for the Ages [3]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Courtship, M/M, Persephone Stiles, Peter Hale as Hades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t ask for Peter’s opinion. To be fair, they don’t ask for Stiles’ either. That’s just fine; neither of them have any problems making it known anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Shorter. But fallout next time I think. Olympus is full of idiots.

 

“What do you think you are playing at?”

Talia’s voice is low and harsh. It makes Peter smile even as his gaze remains on the confrontation occurring across the room, listening to the indistinct but urgent murmurs.

They have retired to a more private setting, Peter, Talia, Stiles and his father. Deucalion is here as witness, although Peter is more convinced his brother simply cannot tolerate being left out of this particular matter. Or any matter. Peter is of the opinion that Deucalion’s self-importance knows no bounds.

“Peter!” Talia hisses, and Peter sighs, turning a look of distaste on his sister.

“Yes, dear Sister?” His lip curls. “What further sagacious counsel would you like to bestow upon my personal affairs now?”

Talia sneers at him. “Personal? You have declared your intentions to take a _consort_.”

“Yes, _I_ have,” Peter emphasizes coolly. “Therefore, personal.” Mockery sharpens his tongue. “You did not see me raise such a fuss when you wedded your whore of a husband, did you?”

Talia’s eyes blazed. Anyone else would cower before her evident wrath. Peter merely arches an eyebrow.

“You will watch your tongue,” Talia spits out.

“My apologies,” Peter retorts sardonically. “I forget he isn’t the only one breaking his marriage vows. You wouldn’t have nearly this many children running around otherwise.”

For a moment, the goddess of the skies looks ready to smite Peter to the ground with a crack of one of her famous thunderbolts. Peter almost wants her to try. But then Talia takes a deep breath, temper fought down, and she pins him with a venomous look instead.

“We both know this is different,” She grits out. “You have only ever courted one other, and that nearly ended in disaster!”

“I did _not_ court her,” Peter immediately sneers. “I had no intentions of courting her. You know this. She desired a throne in my kingdom when I offered her a night in my bed only and no more,” His lips twist with something cruel. “So I gave her exactly what she wanted – an eternal throne in the Fields of Punishment. She is still there now. You have no idea how cathartic her tortured screams can be. When she has the breath for it of course.”

Talia’s lips thin with revulsion. “Very well. Then I could argue that you have never wished for a consort. I find it hard to believe your intentions are anywhere near sincere this time, considering your choice of plaything, so whatever entertainment you think you can derive from this spectacle, you will desist now. Retract the suit, and I shall overlook your latest farcical whim. All parties can walk away from this believing it to be a good laugh and nothing more.”

Talia stares expectantly at him then like she thinks he will now nod in complete agreement with her wisdom and do as she has commanded. Peter scoffs. She should know better by now.

“A good laugh?” Peter echoes. “For the rest of Olympus, perhaps. But for Stiles? Surely you jest. He will be treated an even bigger pariah than he already has been.”

“He has never been a pariah,” Talia frowns sternly. “He is Demetrios’ firstborn. But if you recognize the potential consequences for the boy, then you should never have toyed with him to begin with. And if you have anything of a heart at all, you will stop this madness now before it can be dragged on any longer. Apologize to the boy and tell him you have changed your mind.”

Peter downs the rest of his drink before directing his chilliest smile at his sister, the one their own Titan father once trembled under towards the end of the war, a smile filled with a rage so cold it burns in his chest, a living thing that writhes with the desire to raze the heavens to the ground for their sheer _audacity_.

Talia does not flinch but Peter thinks it is a very near thing.

“Dearest Sister,” Peter lowers his goblet back to the table with a solid clink. His eyes never leave Talia’s. “I refuse.”

 

* * *

 

“Stiles, I have always thought you to be more sensible than this.”

Stiles’ fingers turn white-knuckled in the hidden folds of his robes. His father stands in front of him, features fraught with disappointment. Across the room, Talia, Peter, and Deucalion sit at the table, having their own impromptu private discussion.

“What were you thinking?” His father sighs. “You know of Peter’s reputation. You know of his penchant for instigating conflict and disorder, all to amuse himself. I understand it can be… flattering to be on the receiving end of one of the elder gods’ attentions but you should never allow that to cloud your judgement.”

He sighs again, looking like he wants another drink to fortify himself with. “It matters not. You can reject his suit anytime; you need only say the word to put an end to this. Or would you like me to tell him? I have a few choice words for that-”

“No.”

His father blinks. “Well, informing him yourself is the braver thing to do. I’m proud-”

“No,” Stiles repeats, louder this time. He clears his throat, steels himself, and looks his father straight in the eye. “I mean, no, Father, I will not reject his suit. I have accepted Peter’s offer of courtship, and I intend to see it through.”

For a moment, his father looks completely lost for words, but it doesn’t take long for his expression to darken. “Stiles, this is not a matter to be taken lightly. Whatever game Peter is playing-”

“He wishes to court me!” Stiles bursts out, shoulders squaring. “There is no game!”

“Do you truly believe that?” His father demands incredulously. “Son, Peter is an elder god, the ruler of the underworld, and I ask this entirely out of concern for you, but what can he possibly see in someone like you?”

Stiles recoils. It’s a barely noticeable reaction, even up close, but his father catches it anyway, and he heaves yet another sigh.

“The truth is often harsh,” The harvest god’s tone gentles. “But I am doing you a kindness. Better to halt the courtship here than to let it drag out. You will only hurt more if we let it run its course. Peter will move on and find something else to occupy his time with, and you will have learned a valuable lesson in allowing a few pretty words and gestures turn your head.”

Stiles’ nails bite into his palms, and there is an odd roaring in his ears that threaten to overwhelm him.

It is one thing to ask himself what Peter sees in him, whether the elder god is toying with him, if Stiles is a fool for allowing Peter a chance at his heart.

It is another entirely for someone else – for _his own father_ – to ask him those same questions.

What right does anyone have to do so?

He isn’t certain what prompts him to turn but he does, and he finds Peter already watching him from his seat at the table. The god’s eyes are dark and intent, and when he sees Stiles looking back, he smiles a challenge as if daring Stiles to bow, to yield, to concede defeat when it has never been in his nature to do so, and Peter knows it well.

Stiles’ anger recedes, and his breathing comes more easily.

Perhaps his father is not entirely wrong. Perhaps this _is_ a game. But nobody said a game can’t mean something too. After all, what is life without some fun?

He looks at his father again, who has undoubtedly caught the silent exchange between his son and Peter, and his feelings are plain for all to see in the angry flush high on his cheeks.

“I accept Peter’s suit,” Stiles declares once more, and this time, he says it loud enough for the entire room to hear, an assertion, a claim, a challenge of his own. “It is my heart I am gambling, Father. If I wish to risk it, then – should this courtship end badly – I will only have myself to blame.”

A stunned silence ensues, broken only by Deucalion’s condescending drawl. “ _When_ this courtship ends badly, a broken heart will be the least of your concerns. I suggest you look elsewhere if you wish to spread your legs for someone above your-”

Deucalion blinks. Talia stares. Peter, having risen to his feet shortly after his brother opened his mouth, calmly sets the now empty pitcher of wine back onto the table. The contents of it is currently dripping off Deucalion’s face and soaking into his collar.

The god of the seas _snarls_ , all but leaping to his feet.  “ _Peter_ -”

“I have always warned you, Deucalion,” Peter cuts him off, eyes akin to chips of ice. “If you have nothing worthwhile to say, then simply say nothing at all, lest you find yourself made an even bigger fool.”

Deucalion’s fingers dig into the edge of the table. He doesn’t sit back down until Talia places a calming hand on his arm.

Peter smiles and rounds the table, hand already extending towards Stiles. “As per the rules of courtship, I believe I am now entitled to a few minutes alone with Stiles. Dear heart?”

Stiles’ nose wrinkles at the endearment. Peter smirks, though it softens when Stiles takes his hand and lets the god draw him close until their sleeves brush.

“Stiles-” Stiles’ father takes a step forward, his expression taut with something borderline violent.

“Father, it’s fine,” Stiles huffs, fingers absently slotting with Peter’s.

“You don’t even know him!”

“Well I may be wrong but that’s probably what the courtship is for,” Stiles retorts, mouth shutting with a click when his father glares at his impudence.

Peter only chuckles. “Very true. Shall we?”

Thankfully, nobody stops them as they make their way out of the room, leaving their fuming audience behind. They bypass the dining hall where the noise level is still a cacophonic ruckus of outrage. Peter guides them out into one of the smaller private gardens, and they take a seat on a stone bench next to a pond that ripples gently with every dip and frolic of the night breeze.

“Are you alright?” Peter doesn’t let go of his hand, and he sits too close to be truly proper, but the heat he radiates is comfortable so Stiles won’t be the one to complain.

“Of course,” His lips purse. “I did not know Deucalion could be so… opinionated.”

“You mean vulgar and arrogant and interfering and a hypocrite of the highest degree,” Peter corrects with audible contempt. “His courtships number into the dozens, and each and every one shames his first wife and his marriage vows. I cannot remember the last time I laid eyes on Amphritite. And I have lost count of those he has merely bedded before throwing away. Do not get me started on what he does to the poor creatures when they spurn him.”

He pauses, and the grin that tilts his mouth would be downright malicious but for the playful edge that curbs it. “So you see, Stiles, there is no need to be diplomatic with me, especially when it comes to my siblings. For every fault you see in them, I assure you, I can name ten more.”

Stiles coughs to hide a surprised bark of laughter. Peter watches him with unconcealed fondness. “You hold much of yourself back, Stiles. I will have to cure you of that before this courtship is over.”

“Most would say I do not hold myself back enough,” Stiles admits carefully.

“Most do not know you as I do,” Peter asserts with all the confidence afforded to a god of his station. “And so they do not know what they are missing. More the fool them. And more of you for me.”

Stiles can’t hold back an undignified snort. “You are presumptuous.”

“Am I?” Peter smiles a little, unrepentant and fox-sly.

“Yes,” Stiles confirms in tones coloured with exasperation, hiding a smile of his own behind it. “But I suppose, after the gifts you brought tonight, I shall have to forgive it.”

Peter’s smile widens. “There were well-received then?”

Stiles huffs. “You know they were.”

Bemused laughter deepens the cadence of the older god’s next words. “Then, my dear, you shall have to explain to me why you tossed them both out one of the windows on our way out.”

Stiles turns pink to the tips of his ears.

“You were most discreet; I am sure no one else noticed in the ensuing chaos, and indeed, I believe your father and even my sister overlooked that particular detail when they were far too busy reprimanding us,” Peter assures, and his free hand comes up to hover near Stiles’ cheek like he wants to touch the rose-dusted skin there, but he refrains in the end and lowers his hand back to his lap.

Stiles finds himself almost disappointed.

“But the lack of both flowers and book is rather conspicuous at this moment, I’m afraid,” Peter finishes, lifting their joined but otherwise empty hands to prove his point.

In reply, Stiles simply turns and releases a clear, three-note trill that soars out into the night like a raven on the wind. Seconds later, a stag lopes gracefully out of a nearby thicket of bushes, both flowers and book held delicately in its mouth. It makes its way over, and Stiles finally tugs his hand out of Peter’s warm grasp to receive them.

“Thank you,” He coos, smoothing one palm down the deer’s furred neck. “I apologize for pulling you away from your herd for something so trivial.”

The stag noses close, snuffling Stiles’ ear for a moment, its antlers gleaming under the moonlight, and then it turns and trots away, disappearing into the underbrush once more.

“I did not want my father attempting to take them away,” Stiles expounds once he’s facing Peter again, hands cradling the gifts with care. “And the deer have always favoured me even though Artemis is the one who commands them first.”

“Your father would not dare,” Peter’s head cants to one side. “You truly like them?”

Stiles blinks up from where he was taking a closer look at the flowers. “These? Of course. I have never seen such flowers before.”

“Some would find them off-putting,” Peter explains. “They grow only in my kingdom, and bloom only in the dark of night. They would wilt to mere weeds during the day.”

Stiles looks again at the flowers, every petal a shimmering silver that puts Aphrodite’s finest jewels to shame. “Then I love them all the more. They are unique and new to me, and considering who my father is, I did not expect I would ever say such a thing about any plant in existence.”

He glances up, and it is not difficult at all to see how pleased the elder god is.

He hesitates before confessing, “But I still prefer the gift of a book more.”

Peter’s hands close gently over the one Stiles has on the grimoire.

“It is fortunate then,” The god tells him, his voice lowered to an enticing silky timbre. “That my kingdom holds far more books than flowers. And one day, all this and more shall be yours to enjoy.”

Stiles considers this before turning his upwards and curling pale fingers around the larger breadth of Peter’s hand. The older god immediately returns the grip.

“You are so certain?”

“I am.”

“Then,” Stiles straightens and levels a much sharper look on Peter. “I feel I must warn you – the flowers are nice, and I’m sure your libraries are even nicer. But they will not win you my heart, and compliments – however fine – will only get you so far. You will have to try much harder if you wish to succeed.”

Peter’s only response is a smirk and the brightness of his eyes. “Oh Stiles, if you were not a challenge, I would never have offered suit to begin with.”

In an echo of their first meeting on the balcony last night, Peter raises Stiles’ hand to his lips, and then he takes it a step further and slips off the bench to drop to one knee on the windswept grass at Stiles’ feet. Like this, his throat is bared to the light of the moon, and his gaze remains fixed on Stiles and Stiles alone.

“This courtship has only just begun. You have granted me a chance, and that is all I need, Stiles, to ensure that you will give me your heart as freely and thoroughly as I have given you mine.”

The death god’s pledge rings with both threat and promise, and all Stiles feels is a thrill in his blood and anticipation in his heart.

“It will not be easy,” Stiles reminds him, reminds them both.

“No,” Peter agrees, and when he smiles this time, Stiles is acutely reminded of the fact that this is not just any god kneeling before him, it is the god of the underworld, feared and respected in turn, and the final judgement of all mankind. “But is that enough to stop you?”

Stiles smiles back, and it is an expression that never fails to strike fear into the hearts of those the god has found unworthy and cut down when he roamed the Earth below ( _and perhaps one day soon, he will come to realize just how similar he is to Peter himself_ ).

“No, I don’t believe it is.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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